Always There For You
by teaholic
Summary: Fourth Pre-series story. Mycroft worries about Sherlock constantly, and with good reason. Just because caring isn't an advantage, doesn't mean he doesn't care.
1. Chapter 1

No interesting cases from the police, haven't had a private client in weeks. Being the world's only consulting detective was harder than he expected, he thought, absently pulling the blanket tighter around his clammy skin. It wasn't that the work was so hard, but the lack of it was exhausting. Sherlock reached for the piece of toast Mrs. Hudson had brought, and nibbled on it briefly before his stomach tightened in disagreement, placing it back on the tray in favour of the tea that had sat a little too long.

He never could manage a _normal_ job with _normal_ hours, but at least it was consistent. There hadn't been a decent murder in at least a week, and nothing else of interest in three. What exactly was he supposed to do?

He was currently lacking in suitable materials for experiments back at the flat, and every time he went to the morgue lately, Molly kept trying to _chat_ ; it wasn't like she had anything better to do. Mrs. Hudson handled most the cooking and cleaning, probably for her own safety after three house fires and the incident with the eyeballs in the microwave.

He considered getting a pet, but finding something that didn't require regular care or feeding that he was likely to forget, wouldn't mess with his experiments, and wouldn't bother him incessantly on days like today when he just wanted to lay miserably on the sofa didn't seem possible. Perhaps a flatmate would due. But who want want him as a flatmate?

Anyway, they'd not only have to put up with him, but his annoyingly intrusive brother as well. Speaking of which, Mycroft's "random" visit of the week was likely to be anytime now. He really ought to get get dressed or do something to at least act like he had done more than spend the week lounging on the sofa.

Too late. The stairs creaked as someone climbed them, and it was neither Mrs. Hudson's bustling, nor Lestrade's determined tread. That meant Mycroft.

There was a polite knock at the door before he entered. Sherlock ignored it, pulling the second blanket from the back of the sofa and tucking it around himself, trying to banish the feverish chill.

"Good afternoon, brother dear."

"Is it?" Sherlock quipped back.

"Quite pleasant actually,"Mycroft returned, "you might know that if you ventured out of your hovel a bit more often."

"Hasn't been anything interesting enough in ages, besides I have the flu."

"No you don't."

"I have. And you should probably leave before you catch it and spread it to rest of the cabinet members at your meeting later."

"You don't, and opiate withdrawal is hardly contagious."

Sherlock glared silently at his older brother.

"You have dilated pupils, no cough, and there are two bottles of morphine missing from the hospital," Mycroft supplied. "Simple enough conclusion. Why, might I ask, the morphine though? In the past you've always seemed more inclined toward stimulants."

"There's nothing to do, the last thing I need is more energy."

"Be that as it may, I do not condone this any more than the cocaine."

"Should I be packing for rehab?" Sherlock sneered.

"Just get it under control. I would hate to see you lose your newfound job as the world's only consulting detective. Where would we find another one?"

"It is under control," Sherlock returned. "Just find me something to do."

"Precisely why I came. Family of four murdered a week ago in their own house, but there is reason to believe the killer stayed in the house for quite some time after the deed. I'd like you to look into it."

"I'll think about it."

"Do. Well, I have a meeting to be getting to, like you said, try not the spread the flu, and do feel better, brother."


	2. Chapter 2

A week in the Scottish countryside, and he had found reason to believe the killer had indeed stayed for potentially as much as a couple days after the murder. He appeared to have generally lived in the house until the bodies would have started to smell, then taken the car and disappeared. DNA was found in a variety of places, but there was nothing to match it to in the system.

In fact, this was the second of such a murder, but he failed to get much further than the local police had. The killer had simply vanished the first time. The second, the only suspect had been found dead, similarly murdered, a couple miles away.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street with nothing. His first case in weeks and he had failed to solve it.

Exhausted, he dropped onto his bed, and continued to mentally search for anything he might have missed until at last he fell asleep.

* * *

Mycroft knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street, and waited for Mrs. Hudson to answer the door. After a substantial wait, she pulled open the door, one hand full of cleaning supplies, and a heap of air fresheners and a fan piled near the stairs.

"Spring cleaning?" Mycroft queried.

"Sherlock's not in," the landlady supplied. "Left the place in quite a state though."

"Hopefully nothing too drastic."

She shook her head unbelievingly. "Muttered something about tobacco ash, all I know is I've never had anything smell so badly of smoke."

Mycroft followed her up the stairs, to find the flat indeed reeked of smoke so badly he could barely breath, and that was after she had opened the windows, turned on the fan, and hung a variety of air fresheners.

"You said Sherlock was out, did he say where?"

She shook her head again. "Haven't seen him in a couple days actually, not that anyone could stand to live in this mess."

Mycroft nodded. "Please let me know if you hear from him, and I'll get someone in to help with the… mess."

* * *

 **Where are you?** Mycroft had resorted to texting three days ago. Despite his resources, Sherlock was proving remarkably difficult to find. He wouldn't answer his calls, he managed to duck the CCTV, and no one seemed to have seen him.

Sherlock had been difficult before his trip to Scotland, and no less so since his return. Unfortunately the case hadn't been quite as simple as it seemed and, if possible, Sherlock handled failure worse than boredom. Still, he should have left something by now. Mycroft had looked in all the usual places, including the ones he really hoped not to find his brother, with nothing to show for his efforts. Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard anything, Lestrade had no idea where he was, he had simply vanished.

A month went by before he heard anything, and then it was only a text of garbled letters he couldn't make anything of. He traced it back to an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city though and immediately summoned a car.

* * *

 **1:30 AM**

Greg's phone buzzed on the nightstand, rattling against the surface as a surprisingly effective way of waking him. Although why someone insisted on calling him in the middle of the night though was beyond him. Picking it up, the screen only revealed 'blocked number.' Telemarketer probably. Still, he was awake now anyway.

"Ello?" he answered groggily.

"I need your help," the voice on the end said.

It took him a moment to place the voice, finally realizing it belonged to Mycroft Holmes.

"Why me? I mean, what can I do?"

The other man recited an address, "Come quickly. I need someone I can count on to help, quietly. It would be in your best interest to say nothing to anyone else."

"Alright," Greg answered uncertainly. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't so wrong about his older brother; he did have an uncanny way of getting people to do what he wanted them to without really leaving them feeling like they had much choice in the matter.

Mycroft slipped the mobile back into his coat pocket, trying to maintain his composure, but it was anything but easy. The text had indeed led him to Sherlock, or what was left of his brother. The man before him lay on a dirty mat, disturbingly thin and battered. His wild curls were tangled and matted, dirt and dried blood caked on his face. Both arms were littered with an alarming number of needle marks, and behind the cloudy eyes and constant tremors, he wasn't even sure that Sherlock recognized him.

He sat down beside him, one hand falling to the shaking shoulder of the slight man, "Sherlock…" there were no words to really explain how he felt. The disappointment and guilt, not only that Sherlock had found his way into this again, but that he hadn't been able to stop him, that it had ever gotten this far.

"I'm sorry."

"Alone…" the words slurred together and trailed off. "T-took t-too much.." The shuddering grew worse, and Mycroft could see he was struggling to maintain consciousness.

"Sherlock, stay with me," Mycroft said, quickly pulling a pen and piece of paper from his pocket. "I need you to make a list."

"L-Lisst?"

"Yes," Mycroft answered solemnly, placing the pen in the shaking man's hand. "I need you to make a list of everything you've taken."

This took a good deal of effort from the younger man, his drug addled brain slowly processing the words, he nodded and started writing.

He finally finished the list, at least Mycroft hoped it was finished, and dropped the pen as he struggled to breath and began convulsing.

Mycroft was immediately on his phone again, calling for an ambulance as he simultaneously tried to sooth the younger man and keep him from doing any further damage to himself as he thrashed around.

* * *

Greg answered his phone without hesitation as it began ringing again, this time with more unnerving news from the elder Holmes.

"Change of plans, we're headed to hospital," he announced curtly. "Sherlock has overdosed."

Brief phone call ended, he changed direction and headed back towards the hospital.

He arrived about the same time as the ambulance, EMTs quickly and efficiently unloading and taking the man directly into the emergency room. Still dressed in the ever-present three piece suit, Mycroft was left just outside the doors looking a little lost and rumpled, although remarkably composed for someone whose brother was on the brink of death.

Perhaps it wasn't that bad, Greg thought to himself, couldn't be. Surely even Mycroft Holmes couldn't be that composed if it was _that_ bad.

"How is he? What happened?" he found himself asking as soon as he was within speaking distance of the other man.

Mycroft sighed, still wishing somehow he could have gotten there sooner, that he could have stopped him, if nothing else, just that last injection. Maybe, _maybe_ he wouldn't be here then. Maybe Sherlock would be okay.

"Is he gonna be alright?"

"He overdosed on cocaine, as well as a few other things," Mycroft answered simply. "He's malnourished, bruised, bloodied, started having seizures, and now he's going into cardiac arrest. He's far from alright. Honestly, I don't know if he ever will be."

He settled into one of the chairs in the waiting area, forehead resting in his hands, the exhaustion and frustration at being helpless clearly evident.

"All we can do now is wait."


	3. Chapter 3

There was an almost imperceptible shift in the patient's breathing, but it caught Mycroft's immediate attention. A slight crinkle of the sheets, and a groan as Sherlock regained consciousness and realised where he must be.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

His greeting was met only by an exhausted sigh.

"Or was that not in your plans?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock rasped back hoarsely.

"You overdosed," the words still pained him to say.

"I guessed," Sherlock replied, slowly raising a hand to his pounding head. "Uggh, I feel awful."

"That's not too bad. Two days ago you were clinically dead."

"Plenty of time for you to settle in and get comfortable, I see."

Mycroft arranged the papers in front of himself neatly. "Contrary, I should actually get back the office. I believe they wanted to send you for a psych evaluation before letting you loose though, so I should have plenty of time to come back and visit."

"Please, Mycroft, that really isn't necessary."

"I had nothing to do with it, standard procedure after a suspected suicide attempt. A couple more days of decent care wouldn't do you any harm, you certainly don't seem to be very good at taking care of yourself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"When you've had a good wash up, eaten, and can walk across the room on your own, I'll see what I can do. Until then, I just have one question for you."

"Yes?"

"Was it intentional?"

"What does it matter? I'm obviously still here, by choice or not."

Mycroft nodded solemnly. "I was afraid you'd say something like that."

* * *

The following day, Mycroft walked into the private room Sherlock had been unwillingly taking residence in for the last several days, wheeling a small suitcase behind him.

"Discharge day," he announced, "I've already taken care of the necessary paperwork."

"What ever would I do without you?" Sherlock remarked sarcastically.

"I shudder to think," Mycroft returned, settling into the chair across from his younger brother. "It is time I discuss your future plans with you though."

"I was thinking go home and find some real clothes, possibly have some tea."

"Seriously, Sherlock. Lestrade has been very generous, but he can't be working with a junkie, for his job's sake or public safety's. You did overdose on quite a cocktail of drugs, none of which could be considered legal, and you can't continue to pretend this problem will just go away."

"I know, I have to quit the drugs, eat properly, take care of myself. I get it."

"I don't think you do, Sherlock. You're going to rehab."

"I'm what? I can't. That will make everything worse - I have to-"

"I have found a quiet, exclusive rehabilitation clinic that I think will fit quite well. Afterward, as long as you stay clean, Lestrade has agreed to continue to allow you to assist on cases of interest, and no one else has to know the reasoning for your absence, as you will be officially working for MI6. You bag is packed to go, and Mrs. Hudson has been notified you will won't be back for a few weeks, but will see that flat is ready for your return upon completion of rehab," Mycroft announced.

"And if I refuse?"

"It isn't a choice. If you won't go willingly, you will be classified as a danger to yourself and court ordered into rehab. If you want to keep your Consulting Detective job with Scotland Yard, I suggest you go without a fuss, much easier than trying to explain away a court order stay in rehab. "

Sherlock glared at his brother. "What exactly is the point? It won't help. You and I both know I could easily pass rehab and pick up right where I left off."

"I don't think you truly realise the depth of your addiction, or concern those who care about you have."

"What happened to caring not being an advantage?" the younger man taunted.

"It doesn't stop one from caring any less."


	4. Chapter 4

Today was the day. Mycroft briefly wondered if his younger brother had the same feelings about the day he did, the anticipation and yet dread.

Sherlock had refused to see him, or anyone for that matter, during his stay at rehab, but Mycroft had managed to get some information about his progress. Sherlock had been expectedly petulant during his initial detox, but had refused any medications that might have made the process easier. He sulked rather than participated in group therapy, and was generally uncooperative during individual sessions. The facility's expertly prepared and nutritionally dense food could have just as well been dumped straight into the bins the majority of the time, and Sherlock had behaved, lamentably, like his usual self.

That much he had expected. Despite it all, Sherlock was clean though, had even admitted that the drug usage had gotten further than he ever intended, and they'd only had to forcibly sedate him once. It was as much as he could hope for.

The black Jaguar eased to a stop outside the facility where Sherlock was to be waiting, and Mycroft climbed out. He subtly adjusted his suit as he walked toward the building to retrieve his brother. Inside, the last paperwork was finalized and Sherlock was released into his care with a few recommendations, none of which he would be pleased with.

"You could stay with me at my London flat for a while if you would like," Mycroft offered once they were back into the car.

"So you can keep an even closer I on me?" Sherlock retorted. "I don't think so."

"Our parents wouldn't mind a visit either, I'm sure. You haven't seen them since Christmas."

"And now you've moved to threats."

"I just don't want your visit to rehab to be for nothing."

"I'm going back to Bakerstreet, and you don't have to be my carer."

"Obviously someone does. Find someone. Please."


End file.
